


fire below

by Zekkass



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Ancient History, Character Study, Fade to Black, Gen, Origin Story, Other, Pre-Canon, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 09:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15815760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: The Constructicons and the genesis of Megatron.





	fire below

**Author's Note:**

> While this is a complete oneshot in its own right, it is the first work in a larger project I'm writing: this is essentially the prologue of my version of Megatron's biography, so to speak. G1 has provided a nearly open canvas for me to work in, and I'm finally working on filling it in with my version of events.
> 
> My source for Megatron's creation at the hands of the Constructicons comes from Season 3, Episode 4, although I have of course taken liberties with the scene in question.
> 
> Finally, I'd like to dedicate this work to arco and zeenovos, good friends who helped me figure out the Constructicons and their personalities. Thank you both! :>

“That’s that, then. He’s done.”

A second explosion billows out, larger than the first. Bonecrusher winces, and Scrapper steps back from the vantage point, followed by Scavenger. Hook doesn’t look up from where he’s welding Mixmaster back together.

“It’s lucky we got out of there when we did,” Scavenger murmurs, and Scrapper knows it’s a deliberate provocation for Hook’s sake.

“Lucky? Wasn’t luck at all! We lost Gravedigger! Mixmaster’s going to have to be rebuilt when we get better supplies! And you - ! It’s Devastator who saved us! _He_ chose retreat, not any of us! We’re supposed to handle the thinking for him - “

Mixmaster’s twisted his faceplates into an ugly smile.

“He didn’t like Trannis from the start,” Scrapper says.

It’s true and they all know it: Hook’s exaggerating for the sake of argument. Devastator thinks more deeply than they do, courtesy their shared processors, and when he comes to decisions, they’re final. Trannis had never been a qualified leader, let alone over an army of Decepticons. In easier times he would’ve been deposed.

As is, the Decepticons are in a sorry state. The Autobots have become more than a nuisance, and the cities have been aligning with them, reclaiming that famous sigil.

“A wiser leader would’ve broken the highways,” Hook says, anger spent. Acceptance is settling in, even for the loss of Gravedigger.

“What now?” Scavenger asks, and no one likes the question. “Do we leave Cybertron?”

“No,” Scrapper says. “We’ll make a plan.”

Meaning stop talking, and let him think. Let them all think.

Scavenger quiets, everyone goes quiet while Hook works on Mixmaster.

It’s a complex problem: the short-term is, the Autobots will be running clean-up operations and riding the high of hunting down Decepticons and enjoying their newfound unity. The talk on the datanet hasn’t been subtle, either: those peace-loving fools will abolish war, then skirmishes, and then they’ll all live like Praxians, subject to a high-handed central authority that prevents new factions from forming.

The Constructicons have to either hide, disguise themselves, or leave. And fast. There won’t be room for Decepticons on Cybertron while this new so-called Golden Age blooms. Devastator was too prominent on the battlefield - and what battlefield isn’t he prominent on? - to be easily overlooked.

Easy disguises will be out, and for a long time.

Cybertron isn’t unified yet, however, and that’s the key. Scrapper rubs his mask in thought. Tarn, being the seat of the Decepticons, will be under the closest scrutiny. Other locations are discarded, for similar reasons: Iacon’s the seat of Autobot rule. Polyhex, Helex, Simfur - there are a lot of places on Cybertron they’re familiar with, some gone, some changed.

“Kaon,” Scrapper says.

“Where’s that?” Bonecrusher asks.

“Precisely. It’s a has-been mining settlement. It’s got a few working factories, but the place doesn’t have strategic value. No one’s going to be looking there for us, a poor group of refuges from Tetra, looking for dumb labor.”

“Could work,” Hook says. Here it comes: “Needs a few improvements. We’re not all looking for dumb labor, and we’re not moving as a group. Two of us will go ahead to scope out a base in one of the abandoned mines, and the rest of us will come as singlets, taking odd jobs. We’re not all from Tetra, either! Someone would notice a full group of six with the same origin!”

Scrapper nods, relieved that the suggestions are sensible. _Glad_ that they are. Hook’s been uneasy for the last several thousand years, frustrated by the decline in Decepticon fortunes - and an utter aft to work with, let alone share minds with.

He hasn’t been alone in that frustration, but it’s Hook: he takes frustration to new levels of microaggressions to everyone around him.

“Scrapper,” Hook says. “You’d better have a good plan for what we’re doing after that.”

There is no second choice. Scrapper grunts agreement, fully aware - they’re loyalists. That’s part of the problem with the current wave of Decepticons, those who are loyal to the name are either dead or gone, disgusted with the failures of the recent leaders. Mercenaries and cannon-fodder have been the bulk of the ranks, and true Decepticon warriors have been few and far between.

Hence Trannis’ death, and their current state, battered and hiding in a little cave on a mountain overlooking the battlefield.

Scrapper walks back to the view, watching the airspace fill up with shuttles. They’re far enough off that the shuttles look small.

Their presence signals the absolute end for the Decepticons, and Scrapper’s grim as he ponders the problem - the shortest term, now. Escape, then dispersal, then the future.

And what _is_ the future?

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

//

“Here’s what I’ve figured,” Bonecrusher says while they march. “Trannis could’ve had warriors built. He could’ve broken the highways. He _could_ have rewon the Vosians back. He was a bad leader.”

“Wish we’d seen that before,” Mixmaster mutters.

“We did,” Hook says. “We chose not to do anything about it.”

Damning silence, as they all think about that. It’s a long trek, and they’ve got all the time they need to process the events of the past few centuries.

At least the scenery’s nice for a walk. Too rough to drive, but that keeps the Autobot off their tail - them and their love for light cars, frames you can pick up in one hand and crush. Bonecrusher’s driven over a few of them in his day, and the memory makes him smile.

Yeah, they followed Trannis, and if another like him popped up they’d follow him to. They’ve never been leader material - Scrapper’s the only one of the group with ambitions to lead, but that’s ‘cause he’s a builder, he needs a team to get a building up. Hook’s too hung up on standards to lower himself to dealing with imbeciles, and the rest of them?

Bonecrusher knows he just likes to wreck stuff. Give him a target, that’s his job.

...Which was why he lost Gravedigger. His dumb batchmate brother, an idiot who didn’t have the armor he thought he did, or the skills. In battle - sure, Bonecrusher would look out for him. He’d do it for any of the team, no special favors for even a batchmate. Not his fault he was on the wrong side of the battlefield when Gravedigger met a cannon he couldn’t dodge.

Would’ve been nice to yell at him one more time.

“So Trannis was the weak link,” Bonecrusher says, turning his thoughts from Gravedigger. Devastator’s down to just the six of them, but that’s alright, they’ve been six before.

“Yeah,” Scavenger says. “If he’d been Megazarak, he could’ve forged an army out of what we had.”

“Gotten us better support,” Long Haul says.

“Megazarak defected.”

“We know, Hook,” a weary chorus. Megazarak had been a good leader, holding Cybertron together for a long, long span of time. They know the story - they were there for it. He’d been a great leader, up until he’d fallen in with a little neutral datacaste mech full of arguments, and then his subordinates had risen up against him when he’d turned soft, and that had been that.

“We need someone better than him,” Scrapper says, and ah-ha. That’s the tone they’ve been waiting for, when Scrapper’s got an idea. “Not a figurehead. We can’t pick some random warbuild out and elevate them. We’re not cut out for it. No one is. So.”

They’ve all stopped walking, all optics on Scrapper.

“Make our own,” Scrapper says.

“Out of what?”

“How?”

“From a sparkling?”

“This is why I don’t give you idiots plans until they’re ready!” Scrapper says, louder. “I’ll figure out the how by the time we reach Kaon.”

“It’s a good idea,” Scavenger says, into the silence.

Scrapper grunts, then looks around.

“Why are we just standing around? Move!”

//

Kaon’s a waste. Slag’s everywhere, the streets are untended, you can’t _drive_ anywhere without hitting debris. Red or gold optics leer from shadows, scavengers ready to pick any foolish mech clean and drain their tanks.

It’s perfect for their purposes, and Scavenger takes to it like a new home, joining the ranks of scavengers, but with his own special flair - he’s a solider, and a good one, and he’s not into sharing his finds with anyone but his team. Metals and fuel find their way back to the base, their own little construction over what used to be a deposit of platinum.

He’s been mapping tunnels as well as the town, and Long Haul joins him more and more frequently, unhappy about the work but quietly glad to see the sights. They’re both glad to be out of the base - now that Scrapper’s got the plan in motion, he and Hook are busy designing their new leader.

“Feels weird,” Scavenger comments on a long ride. He’s point, but they’re close enough for a conversation.

“’course it does,” Long Haul mutters. “I told you to make sure it was distributed evenly - I keep feeling something shift.”

“Not that! I meant this leader business. We’re builders, not - drone-makers.”

“You’ve never worked on a metrotitan before?”

“You _have?”_ Scavenger turns to stare him in the headlights.

“Once, and don’t stop me!”

Scavenger obediently turns back and keeps moving, but he’s bouncing his struts, waiting for more. Information about their pasts is privileged information, given out only if anyone feels like it, and no one does. Those were times before Devastator, and alright, Scavenger was okay before Devastator, but it wasn’t the best of times. He gets why the team doesn’t bring it up.

But something this big? A metrotitan - !

“Right,” Long Haul mutters. “It’s just like any other structure, right? Except it’s all of the ones a city needs, and you have to mind the hookups, and it gets a bit - medic work, y’know? Sensory clusters, joints, stuff a standard hab module doesn’t need. Hook would love it. I didn’t. I wasn’t involved with the most of it, either, just - hauling. Avoiding wires. But I look where the technicians put their tools.”

“Was it alive when you were in there?” Don’t let him get distracted by his complaints, let him keep going, push a little for the juicy information...

“Not yet,” Long Haul says. “Okay, I know we’ve put up surveillance before. It’s like that, but there’s no one watching on the other end. And you know there will be, when it’s booted up.”

“Spooky.”

“Right.”

...

That’s it?

“Were you there when it was booted up?”

“Yeah,” Long Haul says, and he’s happy about something. “Yeah, I was. All the lights came on, and I wasn’t there with the city-speaker, but I could feel it. Big field. Lots of buzzes as the scanning units worked all at once. It’s like standing in front of Devastator, real close, when he’s looking at you.”

“Whoa,” Scavenger says, barely resisting shivers of delight. “Yeah, it has to be like that, because it can just fold up and crush you - “

“Can, but it doesn’t. Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Long Haul lets it go, and Scavenger doesn’t push for details. He might ask later, he might not. Right now it’s enough to know - and oh, right. Their leader business.

“...Whatever we make’s gonna be similar,” he says. “It won’t be huge, right, but it’ll be strong, and if we’re not careful it’ll want to scrap us.”

“Huh. We should let Hook know.”

They should. Scavenger doesn’t want to. But it’s a point he’s sure they’re not thinking about, and Long Haul’s right.

“...Can you drive a little slower?”

“Not with this load in me I won’t.”

Great.

//

“We’ve thought of that,” Hook says, and he doesn’t give Scavenger a chance to wilt. “As soon as Mixmaster gets back we’re forming into Devastator. _He_ needs to approve of the plans.”

“Oh,” Scavenger says. He’s fidgeting, and Hook brings him back to where they’ve got a rudimentary frame laid out. It’s nowhere near the final design, or even the correct components for the frame they intend to build, but it’s enough to work as a guide.

“There are at least three methods to introduce a spark to a frame to create a Cybertronian,” Hook says, falling into a lecture to soothe Scavenger’s habitual nerves. “The first is through Vector Sigma. We don’t have access to it. The second is to grow one. We don’t have the materials for that, and the resulting spark is completely random - we could grow a carformer as easily as a tankformer. Third is to create one using another spark as a base.”

“Wait,” Scavenger says. “We’re not going to - ?”

“If Devastator agrees,” Hook says. “Then we’ll find out if it’s possible.”

Formally speaking, the process is known as spark division. Informally speaking, it’s called budding, after some kind of organic process one of Altihex’s scientists discovered. _That_ had been a controversy, something so close to Cybertronian reproduction replicated by aliens. It had taken multiple expeditions to declare the information accurate, and longer for most to integrate the idea into their world-view. It wasn’t the first time they’d found parallels between themselves and aliens, but it was the most unsettling.

In Hook’s view, stemming from his longevity, it made sense they had parallels with organics. After all, they’d been created by organics.

Not that _that_ piece of history was still current.

“What if,” Scavenger begins, and Hook snaps a glare at him.

“Save it for the merge. None of us know enough to be certain it’s even possible.”

Scavenger’s vocalizer snaps, and he nods, shuffling away. If the mech had more nerve - he wouldn’t fit in Devastator. Keeping six personalities in sync took a lot of work, and basic fundamentals had to be agreed on. Too many strong personalities in a merge led to arguments during the merge, and without Devastator they couldn’t hold the form.

His gaze falls on the frame, and he shifts his mental modes around. Reflection was useful for talking with Scavenger, and explaining theory. It was wide-ranging and dipped lightly into the memory banks. For design work, and theory?

For that he needed precision.

//

The question comes down to Devastator; for him, they find a hidden dip in the topography where he can stand tall without being spotted.

A gestalt isn’t a democracy or a dictatorship, but something prosaic: conscious thought from any of the components indicates something wrong with the merge, unless something strange is happening.

Devastator forms up in a rain of gravel and dust, stretching cables and looking to the stars. No imminent threats, nothing to destroy. He can’t even walk far without exposing himself.

It is one of those strange merges where he exists to think - not simply pulling conclusions from his components.

A Decepticon leader, not him, armed in all senses. Gun-metal gray and red optics, a domineering personality. Restrained due to form, internal and external, free in all else. A weapon built to order.

Devastator raises a hand, covering the bright stars and considering the weight of the gun in his hands.

A decision is not so much made as inevitably shifted into place.

Devastator moves with that uncanny speed, removing his chest armor - it falls to the ground with a mighty crash - and splitting the finer metals that cover his spark. Six small lights orbiting in unison, spinning faster and faster as too-large fingers reach into that fragile/resilient conglomerate. Metal parts, and parts, a finger folding back and back until it is small and delicate enough to manipulate the flow of the sparks, catching little shards and eddies.

The sensations are profound.

Shards of the components are dislodged, guided into an outer orbit, induced to become independent without losing the connection.

A complaint bubbles up, that _no one_ has done this before, and Devastator plans to split with that tiny spark still growing? Self-preservation and curiosity and irritation, and Devastator allows the components to come apart as the little spark pulls in six directions, splitting with them as they fall apart.

Not destroyed, not undone: six pieces of a spark growing in their individual spark-chambers, waiting until it can be completed.

//

Mixmaster’s sparkchamber _burns._

It’s the new spark, Devastator’s own spawn, and it barely fits inside of him. Pain’s passed around the gestalt bond, a wary realization that they’re all suffering.

Scrapper’s orders: Mixmaster, make them all something that will make the pain _stop._

“F-fine,” Mixmaster says, vocalizer hissing as he rummages around in his internal storages. Asking the impossible. The pain’s from their sparks, not their sparkchambers, and that’s a difference he can’t resolve. Nothing chemical can touch their sparks, and blocking signals from the sparkchamber is - stupid.

“We’re not going to be able to work,” Hook says from outside of Mixmaster’s focus.

Hook understands, the only other one of them who has anywhere near as close an understanding of what Mixmaster’s art can do to a frame. If he’s intervening, it’s safe to tune them all out, focusing instead on what he’ll need: if he can’t block the pain, then he has to drown out the signals instead.

Pleasure. Mixmaster has a dozen ready mixtures that can divert the entire gestalt into an orgy, but for something this overwhelming, he’ll need something new. It will have to keep their systems online while producing more signals than they can process...

His focus is caught, and his world shrinks to chemicals, compounds, and Cybertronian biology.

//

“Mixmaster,” Long Haul growls, wincing at the sound as he clambers upright. “Mixmaster!”

Curses echo around the cavern, and Long Haul’s audials shut off. The ache is localized to his cranium, his interfacing equipment, and his spark chamber, all aching for different reasons - and frag, frag but his processors still haven’t recovered from whatever it was Mixmaster fed them.

His optics fade in and out, then come back on with a flash of warning signals. He has to hunch down and hold his helm, waiting for self-repair systems to work.

“D-dark green,” Mixmaster’s voice comes from the floor. “Intact. In a row - by the table.”

Six vials are waiting for them, and Long Haul’s the lucky first - he grabs one at random and swallows it, vents rasping. There’s interfacing, and then there’s ‘facing, and then there’s - whatever the frag that was.

He remembers flashes of sensation: nodes lighting up, tangled cables and cursing, shouts, and the glow of their sparks. They’d merged, somewhere in the desperation, and - 

He’s not in pain. That’s wrong, he’s sore everywhere in frame - his circuits were overloaded and the burns will take days to properly repair, so he doesn’t get pain signals from every other wire - but his spark. It’s fine. There’s no crippling pain driving into every thought.

“Frag was _in_ that,” Bonecrusher says, the second to make it to the prepared vials. The rest of them aren’t far behind, the vials emptying quickly.

“The orgy was a diversion,” Mixmaster says, vocalizer steady. “P-pain means something’s damaged. Can’t fix sparks. Spark-chamber had to g-grow.”

“We just refueled our repair systems,” Hook says, tone a touch awed. No one will mention it. “You put us under for surgery without ever touching us.”

Mixmaster nods, once.

Hook promptly takes his forearm. “Walk me through what you did. We might be able to use it in the future - “

Off they go, and Long Haul groans softly. He’s not upset about the pain being taken care of, but it’s _spooky_ to come online and discover you’ve been modified without realizing it. His own system scans have been coming back green, except for the damage from excessive ‘facing.

“Bonecrusher,” he mutters. “You need to get your plugs checked.”

“You begged for it.”

“Funny. I don’t remember that.”

“Want a playback?” Scavenger offers, before backing off at his glare.

“I do,” Scrapper says, and that’s about when Long Haul leaves, aiming to get some proper recharge. If they want to swap stories and new tricks for later, that’s fine. _He_ doesn’t need the help. He’s got too many nodes and sensitive spots on his frame, thanks to Devastator.

... Devastator. The mech who decided it’d be a good idea for them to have a sparkling.

Exciting, sure. The plans for it have been sound, now that Hook’s begun to work on the frame for it with the right materials. He and Scrapper have been working their tails off to find the ores Hook’s wanted, and they’ve pushed the limits of their credibility as dumb laborers. ‘Part of the risk of building a masterpiece,’ Hook had said, and Scrapper had backed him up.

His berth is solid and secure and doesn’t argue with him. He lies horizontally and thinks, frame more in need of rest than his processors.

Devastator’s got him figured out. Devastator - the trick to Devastator is that he’s more than the sum of his parts. He doesn’t just know their sparks, he _is_ their sparks. And they want a leader, someone they can trust the Decepticons to and follow.

Their creation’s going to be scarily smart. It’ll know how to watch and listen, like he does - and that’s still not the scariest thing about it.

Long Haul’s lived too long and seen too much to pretend he’s not ambitious. He’s the best dumb labor there is, because he knows how to do his job without asking questions. He’s watched countless mechs of Scrapper’s stripe manage others, bid for bigger projects, and dig themselves into deeper and deeper holes. That metrotitan - he saw what went into it, and saw what came out of it.

If Scavenger had mustered the nerve to ask, he would’ve told him that just building a metrotitan according to spec doesn’t work. He could’ve told him that the whole place turned violent. It just up and decided to be independent, and you don’t argue with a metrotitan. You just get off of it before it figures out how to turn on its main engines.

The frame Hook’s so obsessed with, and the spark growing in all of them - well, thanks, Scavenger. He hadn’t stopped to really think about it until he’d brought it up.

Now that it’s too late to stop, he just has to figure out how to adjust the load. Treat it like an oversized heap of cargo in the bed, teetering perilously towards one side or the other.

If they don’t bind it right...

A flash of red optics, and gray plating. Of a firm voice, a mech that’s used to obedience.

“...Someone’s going to have to teach you perspective,” he mutters, and forces himself into a real recharge.

//

They are all present when the moment comes: Devastator formed as they brought their sparks together to unite the new spark, and Devastator did not leave when they came apart, cradling the new spark in their hands. Hook is the primary guide as it settles into its casing, and he and Scrapper trade work as they perform the finishing touches.

Last minute welds, checks on wires, and they nod to each other.

Power flows, igniting the frame's engines.

Optics light up, a searing red, the shade carefully selected.

"State your designation," Scrapper says formally, to test their creation's audials, processors, integration of language packs, and more miscellaneous software.

There's the click as a vocalizer activates, and three words:

"I am Megatron."


End file.
